


Quarter Past Midnight

by missbecky



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Everyone lives, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, Mild background Roxy/Merlin, Past Eggsy/Tilde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 12:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13235310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/pseuds/missbecky
Summary: Quarter past midnight and Eggsy can't sleep. He can still see it all so clearly. He doesn't need to close his eyes to remember every detail of that night they spent together.





	Quarter Past Midnight

Quarter past midnight and Eggsy can't sleep. By all rights he ought to be exhausted; he didn't get any sleep last night in that holding cell in Holborn prison, and today has been one non-stop adventure after another, but still sleep eludes him.

The Kingsman barracks have been dried out and put back to rights in record time. Around him the room is still but not silent, filled with the sound of other people breathing, wheezing, stirring beneath the covers. Distantly he thinks he hears a dog barking. 

In the bed next to his, Roxy snores lightly. She's his first ally here, hopefully his friend. He knows he's going to need friends if he's going to make it here. 

He still can't quite believe that he _is_ here. That there is such a thing as Kingsman. That he's been invited to be a part of it.

Before, it was all rather exciting. A super-secret spy organisation hidden beneath an ordinary tailor shop. A man who knew his father coming out of nowhere and offering him the keys to this incredible world. A chance to make something of himself, to be more than the thief, the drug mule, the loser from the estates.

But that was before the water. Before Amelia.

Eggsy can still see it all so clearly. He doesn't need to close his eyes to see Amelia lying there in the puddles, water draining from her body. He remembers the firmness of her handshake, her automatic acceptance of him in spite of his accent and his clothes. And now she's dead.

He didn't know her well enough to mourn, but it's enough to have rattled him thoroughly. Whatever he thought this was going to be, he clearly got it all wrong.

He needs a distraction, something to take his mind off Amelia's limp body and the suddenly all-too-real possibility that he too might die here.

Fortunately he doesn't have to look very hard. He only has to remember how he got here, and the exciting, extremely fit mystery that is Harry Hart.

He's never known anyone like Harry. Someone capable of wearing a perfectly tailored suit and beating the shit out of people with nothing more than a fucking umbrella. Someone who speaks like a proper gentleman in order to hide the graceful violence coiled underneath. Someone who had his interest from the moment Eggsy first saw him standing in the sunlight outside Holborn Station.

Someone Eggsy is falling in love with.

He groans quietly, not wanting to wake anyone up, not trusting that this room isn't under surveillance, not wanting anyone like Merlin to see or hear his restlessness.

But it's true. He can't deny it. He's falling for Harry.

And whether he becomes Lancelot or not, the truth is that he is fucked. So very, very fucked.

****

Quarter past midnight and Eggsy can't sleep. At least his watch says it's midnight. He has no fucking clue what time it actually is in whatever fucking time zone they're in right now. 

All he knows is that everything hurts. He aches from fighting Gazelle, cuts and strained muscles making themselves felt now that the adrenaline has long since worn off. Every bullet that lodged safely in his bespoke suit has left a bruise on him somewhere.

And deep inside, a pain he hardly knows how to deal with yet, Harry. Dead. Murdered. 

Roxy snores lightly in her seat in the other aisle. Merlin is in the cockpit, maybe sleeping while the autopilot does its thing, maybe trying to find out if anyone else at Kingsman was a traitor like Chester King, some other agent currently lying dead with their head exploded. 

Eggsy sits still, staring blankly at nothing. The shades are drawn and the cabin lights are dim, inviting him to sleep. But there's no way he can do it.

He can still see it all so clearly. He doesn't need to close his eyes to see the sparkle of lights from the disco ball. The glittering, deadly spin of Gazelle's bladed feet. The blood and gore on the floor, headless people lying where they fell.

The way the people in that church dropped one by one as Harry was forced to kill them.

He can scarcely believe it. He had seen the ruthless killer lurking just beneath Harry's polished exterior when he saw the way he handled Dean's goons in the Black Prince the morning they first met. But that was nothing, Eggsy knows that now. What happened in the pub was merely a puff of wind compared to the cyclone that raged in that church. 

Yet Harry had been so different with Eggsy. Teaching him how to make a martini, even laughing over the absurdity of his "recipe." Showing him the intricate etiquette rules for a large formal meal, cooking mountains of food for him and serving it all with a kind lecture and a fond smile. Demonstrating a Windsor knot, his hands patient and warm on Eggsy's as Eggsy fumbled his way through knotting a striped Kingsman tie plucked from Harry's closet.

The way that Harry touched him, and always with a faintly inquiring look, the barest hint of a smile. Like he wanted to make sure. Like he was just checking to see if Eggsy wanted it too.

There's no way Eggsy was alone in his feelings for Harry. No way at all. He's absolutely convinced of that. But there's never going to be anything to come from it. The bright future he envisioned with Harry is gone now too. As dead as the man himself.

The sob that tears from him is horrifyingly loud. He clamps a hand over his wounded mouth. It'll probably start his lip bleeding again, but he doesn't care. He can't bear the thought of Roxy waking up and seeing him like this.

But once begun, it's impossible to stop. All the grief he's been holding back since Valentine fired that shot is here now, and there's no more denying it. Harry is dead, and Eggsy loved him, oh God Eggsy loved him.

Alone, he hides his face in his hands and he cries. 

****

Quarter past midnight and Eggsy can't sleep.

They had another fight today, the worst one yet. Tilde is down the hall, sleeping, or maybe just trying to, in the guest room; she will not sleep in this bed that once belonged to a dead man.

Eggsy knows she has a point. He doesn't need Roxy or his new girlfriend or even a psychiatrist to tell him that it's fucking weird to keep Harry's house untouched, like it's a shrine or something. He already knows that. But he still can't make himself change anything.

This is the only way he gets to keep Harry in his life. Somehow. Even just a little.

They had so little time together, but most of what they had was in this house. He was incredibly happy here, but he also experienced one of the worst days of his life too, in that room down the hall.

He can still see it all so clearly. He doesn't need to close his eyes to remember every detail of that night they spent together. Harry teaching him how to make a martini, smiling and saying, _Come with me, there's something I want to show you._ Going back upstairs to learn about the cache of weapons and Kingsman gear Harry kept in his office, so cleverly hidden behind the wall. Sitting back down again while Harry raised his glass in an unexpected toast, those ridiculous headlines behind him. _Here's to you, Eggsy. You're exactly what Kingsman needs._

Harry had believed in him so much. More than anyone else in his life. He had believed it so much that his anger and disappointment had been plain to see that terrible day. Even now Eggsy still can't walk in the front door without glancing up at the stairs, half-expecting to see Harry descending them, the spy's neutral mask lost under the strength of his emotions.

And okay, he gets it. He really does. He knows it's fucking strange to sleep in this bed where Harry once slept. Where Harry maybe, possibly, lay here thinking about Eggsy the same way Eggsy still thinks about him. The bed where Harry will never sleep again, because he is dead.

So all right. He'll get rid of the bed. They can go shopping for a new one together. But that's all he's willing to get rid of. Everything else has to stay. Even Mr. Pickle, creepy and pathetic on his shelf in the downstairs loo.

This house is all he has left of Harry. Changing anything in it would be losing him all over again.

And Eggsy can't do that. He just can't.

****

Quarter past midnight and Eggsy can't sleep. He's too wound up, too full of nervous energy. He can't believe he's here. 

The room around him is not silent, this anonymous flat in a part of London he's never even been to before. He can hear the faint sound of traffic; more distantly, a siren wails as an ambulance speeds toward its destination.

In the bed next to him, Harry sleeps quietly. He's on his right side, facing Eggsy, night reducing him to little more than a silhouette.

Eggsy can still see him so clearly, though. He doesn't need to close his eyes to see Harry above him, flushed and naked, sweat gleaming on his brow. He remembers the way Harry touched him, like he was everything Harry had ever wanted. He still aches with the violence of it, how they grasped and bit and clung to each other. Tomorrow they will both have bruises.

Or today, rather. It's a new day by the clock, night rolled into day, dawn still hours and hours away. Still plenty of time for him to fall asleep next to Harry and share this bed properly.

He can't do it though. 

He still can't believe he's actually here. In this flat, in this bed, with Harry. Life really ain't that kind of movie, and he oughta know -- except that every now and then it actually is. And the happy ending isn't a fairytale wedding after all, but two unhappy spies slamming each other up against the wall and yelling and cursing and finally, finally kissing.

He doesn't know what's going to happen tomorrow. Or today. Fuck. Whatever. The point is, he doesn't know.

And Eggsy doesn't care. Right now Harry is asleep next to him, breathing softly, naked limbs under the light blue sheets that now smell of sweat and sex and the mingled scent of their cologne. An hour ago he was in Harry's arms, kissing Harry, winding loose curls about his forefinger, grinning in delight. Half an hour ago he watched Harry turn off the light and cross the darkened bedroom, a slender shadow walking toward the bed with no hesitation. 

And now Harry sleeps. Displaying such simple trust that Eggsy almost feels that he _can't_ fall asleep himself, can't betray that trust by leaving Harry completely vulnerable and alone in the dark. That's fucking stupid, of course, because if anyone can defend themselves it's Harry Hart. But still Eggsy can't let go of that thought.

He reaches one hand across the sheets, stopping when his fingers brush Harry's arm. There's a thin scar on the inside of Harry's arm near his elbow, a white line Eggsy saw for the first time tonight. Until an hour ago he never knew it existed.

And he never knew Harry could look at him the way he did, with such softness, almost like he had reverted to the lepidopterist with no memory of himself. He never knew what it meant to see Harry be truly happy.

But he knows now. And lying there in the dark, gently stroking Harry's arm, Eggsy vows that he'll never again let anything come between them. He'll never let anyone threaten Harry. And anyone who hurts Harry is fucking dead. Full stop. No questions asked. And that includes Champ and Tequila and all of Statesman. Because fuck those guys after everything they did to Harry. Helping to rebuild Kingsman is the least they can do.

Cause there is still a Kingsman, of course. There will always be a Kingsman. And Eggsy is a part of it. That's something he almost lost sight of, almost let go of.

Out in the living room, the puppy named Hamish barks. He's a cute little thing, not at all like his namesake, who only rolled his eyes when he learned what Harry was calling the dog. Underneath the grumpy exterior, though, Merlin is actually rather pleased by the name. At least that's what Roxy claims, and Eggsy is inclined to believe her. Besides, who wouldn't want a fuzzy puppy named after them?

The dog doesn't bark a second time, and the night turns silent again, even the hum of traffic momentarily falling quiet. Eggsy lets his fingertips glide down Harry's arm to his wrist until he can feel the pulse beating there, strong and steady.

The rhythm reassures him. With his free hand he turns his pillow, seeking a cool spot. He still doesn't want to fall asleep.

Tomorrow (today, whatever) he's going to present himself at the shop. He's going to find out what they have, what they need, what he can do to help. They're not open for business yet, either the tailor or spy variety, but it won't be long now. The distillery too is nearly ready to start production, though Eggsy is not involved there at all. 

But he could be. Whatever Kingsman needs of him. Whatever Harry needs.

He's ready for it.

****

Quarter past midnight and Eggsy can’t sleep. But tonight he doesn't have to worry about it. Because tonight he isn’t alone.

Harry stands nearby, a presence more felt than seen in the dark, dressed all in black like Eggsy himself. They’re here for surveillance only; there are some things even the best satellite photos can’t discern.

It’s bitterly cold, the sky obscured by low clouds. Eggsy’s breath frosts the air in front of him. His hair feels frozen atop his head, held in place by temperature, not pomade. Kingsman’s first mission since being rebuilt and naturally it would require him to freeze his arse off.

But he’s perfectly happy. Maybe that General they think is selling information will show tonight, and maybe he won’t. Either way, Eggsy is here with Harry, two Kingsman knights doing their duty, ready to save the world in whatever way it might need saving.

This is all he ever wanted. From that first night, lying in the Kingsman barracks back when he thought he would one day be Lancelot, this is what he dreamed of.

Sometimes he can still scarcely believe he got his wish.

As he stands there in the cold, dark night of a strange city, it starts to flurry. It’s not much, but it takes Eggsy by surprise. “Oi, since when is it supposed to snow?”

“It’s not,” Harry replies, his voice pitched low. “I doubt it will last.”

Probably not. But it’s enough to make Eggsy smile. He has no idea why it should be this night, this place, but suddenly everything in his life seems just absolutely fucking perfect.

He turns to Harry. “Marry me.”

Harry’s silence resounds through the chill air. Eggsy steps closer until he’s able to actually see Harry now, a dark shadow against the night.

“Oh, Eggsy,” Harry says, and it’s all there in his voice. All his doubts and uncertainties. Everything he’s thinking, that he’s too old, too ruined, too unfit for someone young and vibrant.

“It don’t have to be tomorrow or next month,” Eggsy says. “But marry me. Nothing’s gonna change. It’ll still be us.” He steps closer still, and now he can see faint light reflected in Harry’s eye.

“Still you and me in our house,” he says. “Only thing different will be a piece of paper. No one even needs to know,” though his heart cries out at that, at having to keep such a secret. But he would. For Harry. He would.

“Just marry me,” he says. “You and me. Together.”

Harry breathes in deep. “Oh Eggsy,” he says again. “I would be honoured.”

Harry is warm in his arms, holding him close. His kiss is warmer still, and Eggsy leans into him, his heart racing.

He doesn’t have to close his eyes to see it all so clearly. Their life ahead of them: bespoke suits hanging side by side in the closet, dog beds in every room, butterflies on the wall. Standing shoulder to shoulder at the firing range and in cold cities like this one. Breakfast tea and posh dinners and snuggling on the couch in front of the telly with a bag of crisps. Long hot kisses in the dark just before going off to save the world yet again.

Night after night, together. Pinning each other to the sheets, feet tangled, hands caught in hair. Knocking pillows to the floor, rolling atop each other. Laughing at the discovery of unexpected ticklish places, gripping the sheet in tight fists, arching up against warm mouths on skin.

Falling asleep, a warm body to cosy up with, cold feet in winter. Falling asleep knowing that they aren't alone, that they need never be alone again.

Quarter past midnight, and this is when the rest of all their days begins.


End file.
